Coal and Whitewash
by Lucy Pryde
Summary: A little AU oneshot set during Catching Fire. Madge is tired of being without an identity, and Gale feels as if he's misplaced his. Madge discovers the answer, and it is rather daring, reasonably stupid, utterly irrisponsible, and absolutely Gale-approved


**Disclaimer: I do not own the Hunger Games. This story is strictly written for the pleasure of myself and fellow fans, not for monetary gain of any sort. No copyright infringement intended. **

_Madge POV_

She's gone. Katniss is gone again, and I wish I could say that I couldn't believe it. I wish that I could say that I'd never expected to see Aunt Maysilee's mockingjay pinned to her chest again, but I'd be lying. And everyone knows that it's unbecoming of a mayor's daughter to tell a lie.

"Maysilee," I hear, and I glance down at Mother just long enough to see the way her eyes are swirling. I crept up the stairs tonight praying that she wouldn't have seen the Quell's beginning. It was a stupid hope.

"No, Mother. It's Madge," I say gently, running my fingers across her brow. She says nothing, but her eyes flutter. She must already be coming down; it takes more and more for her to outlast her headaches now. Inside, I know that the Capitol will never run out of the clear liquid that seems to sustain Mother's life, but I still feel a pang of worry when I see the two empty vials already on the nightstand.

"Poor Calendula," she mutters through her haze. My brow scrunches up in confusion before I remember that Calendula is Mrs. Everdeen's name. "Why aren't you comforting her, May? She has to be devastated."

I choke back a sob.

"It's Madge, Mother."

She smiles tiredly. "Of course, dear. That's what I called you. Now, why don't you go see Calendula?"

There's no reasoning with her and the morphling. I know this, but it still sends a knife into my chest when I realize that my mother would rather believe that I'm her dead sister than the child she brought into the world.

I lean over to place a kiss on her brow. It feels cool and clammy, and I grab a blanket from the hope chest at the end of her bed and tuck her in. She sighs. I sigh. I give her one last look before I creep out the door and down the stairs with barely a sound. The back door doesn't even creak like usual when I slip into the night air.

It's a chilly evening, with no cloud cover at all to blanket in the minimal amount of heat that the sun gives to 12. I shiver, but I am not going back inside for my shawl. I am going to the Seam.

I'm wearing the plain blue dress that I always save for such occasions. My mother says it's a rag. It reminds me of Katniss, though, and so I wear it often. It's just course fabric stitched together to resemble some sort of a garment, but there's more to it than meets the eye. Wear and tear has made it soft, and it's like stepping into an embrace every time I put it on. Besides, I'm trying to think about Katniss at other times of the day, when I'm not watching her trudge through that rainforest that is the arena this year.

I'm so lost in my own thoughts that I don't even realize that the long walk to the Seam is almost over. I don't know what I'm looking for until I see it: the Everdeens' old place. It sits alone. The paint is long gone, and the shutters are hanging even more than they were when Katniss was around to whack them back into place whenever she thought about it.

Katniss isn't here—even if she was, she would be snuggled in her cozy Victors' Village house. I might be looking for times when everything was simpler, or I might just be going mad from the stress of the past few days. I haven't heard anything from Haymitch, and there's no news about Darius, either. We think he's dead, but a part of me—a stupid, imaginative part of me—thinks that he's alive and giving the Capitol hell wherever he is. I hold on to that piece of madness, because it's the good kind.

"Move and you're dead."

I turn around quickly, and an arrow buries itself in the rotting side of Katniss's house.

"It's nice to see you, Gale," I say mildly, taking him in. He's still tall, still looks like a lean, wiry coalminer from the Seam. It's only because I know about the rebellion that I can see the way the set of his shoulders and his clenched jaw betray how ready he is to take action. Aren't we all?

"I almost killed you," he comments. I don't argue. Instead, I sit on Katniss's porch and gesture for him to join me. He scoffs, but does step closer to me. His stubble casts a shadow on the whole lower half of his face in the moonlight. He looks like a goat, and I can barely suppress my smile as he begins tapping his foot.

"You almost died," he says, and I wonder if he knows he's redundant.

"If you'd succeeded, you'd have done us good. One less for the Capitol to pick off," I quip, giving him a wan smile as my fingers worry the strings of my dress.

"Yeah," he says, but he doesn't look amused.

The silence that fills the air isn't awkward. I'm used to Gale not talking to me, and frankly, this is downright chatty for him when it comes to me. He thinks he's better than me because he thinks I'm better than him. He's twisted.

I reach off the edge of the porch, and I gently yank the arrow from the soft wood. Its scent is musty, almost earthy; it's an unassuming smell, and I like it. I use my fingers to clean the dust off of the arrowhead, and run my hand along its shaft until I reach the fletching, which I smooth gently. Point towards me, I offer him the arrow. He takes it without thanks, and we sit there in silence until I feel the cold starting to seep into my bones. _I will not shiver_, I tell myself. _Knowing him, he'll rattle off the delicate sensitivities of town folks. _

"Madge?"

I look up. His eyes are Seam eyes, filled with sorrow, but they're even worse than they've ever been before. I know it's Katniss that makes them that way, and I'm seized with a fit of wanting to get to know him. Before sanity can again take me, I blurt,

"My name is Maysilee."

"What?"

"Maysilee Margaret Undersee." I wince as my full name tumbles from my lips. "I'm sorry. I don't know why I told you that."

He just nods.

"Your aunt was in the Games with Haymitch, wasn't she?"

"They were allies. . . right up until they parted ways and the Capitol's mutts skewered her like a boar."

His eyebrows shoot up, almost getting lost in the rich darkness of his hairline. _There's a lot about me that you don't know, Seam boy_, I think to myself as I watch his reaction. He doesn't think that I have it in me to tell things like they are.

"You never knew her."

"No. I _am_ her, at least to Mother."

"Wow," he remarks. "Townspeople have problems."

"Yes," I reply with a smile, "like men from the Seam who show up and try to shoot them first and ask questions later."

He nods.

"Yes, but men from the Seam have problems, too. For example, ditzy town girls who show up unannounced at abandoned houses and do the opposite of what said armed Seam man asks them to do."

I smile at him, and he's not even looking at me when a smile forms across his face, too. He looks at me, and our smiles slip from our faces like mirror images of each other. Gale has dimples, I realize, and the thought of it is so strange to me that I almost point them out. I wonder what it would be like to run my fingers across his bristly face and feel the dip of each one form beneath my fingertips. I don't know where that thought came from, but I shake my head to let it loose. I must be thinking about Katniss too much when I start thinking about Gale in a romantic fashion. I am not Katniss, I tell myself. I try not to listen to the small voice inside my head that says it's a terrible shame, but it breaks through, anyway. And at the same time, a smile breaks across my face. I have an idea. I don't remember smiling like this since I saw Katniss and Peeta get ready to eat poisonous berries, and I whisper it to myself before I realize that Gale can hear me, too.

"Yes, well, it's generally a joyous event when two of your closest friends get ready to commit a cozy couple's suicide. It makes me feel downright toasty inside."

"Peeta's not your best friend," I tell him before I can stop myself. I'm considering banging my head against the porch to get rid of this strange, strange need to blurt out what I honestly think at all times.

"No," he says, "but it would have upset Katniss if he had died. If he dies," he corrects himself, remembering that at this very moment, Katniss and Peeta are fighting for their own lives inside the arena.

"I had an idea," I tell him. "I don't think you'll like it."

"Probably not," he agrees, but sits back as if he's just waiting to hear it.

I look around my eyes shifting to the forest and the humming fence. It always hums now. When I hear nothing but the electricity's whispers, I make whispers of my own to Gale's listening ears. When I'm finished, he doesn't smile or rage or do anything like I'd expected him to. Instead, he takes my hand and helps me up from the porch.

The night seems to go on forever and stand still at the same time. It seemed like forever that I waited outside of Gale's house for him to return with the supplies, and an eternity passes while I search my father's work shed for more, but it seems like only minutes that we work in the town square.

There's a large television screen there where they play the Games for anyone who is about the town. _How considerate_, I think wryly. However, everyone will be watching that screen tomorrow, and not for the Games.

We barely make it out of the square by sunrise, and we don't even say goodbye to each other as he heads back to the Seam and I sneak home to my back door. I slip in unnoticed, slide between my sheets and sleep immediately, my hands still covered in white paint and coal dust.

I wake only hours later when Papa is shaking my shounders.

"Get up, Madge! Someone has taken things too far," he urges, and I am confused for a moment before I feel the cracking paint between my fingers. It's sat all night—it won't come off, but I hide my hands under the covers. I tell Papa that I'll be ready soon, and I'm true to my word. I know that it won't be long, that it can't be long before Gale and I are found out. I only hope that Snow gives 12 enough time to see our handiwork. It's easy to tie the pink ribbon into my hair, to don the white dress that I wore last year when Prim was reaped. It's even easy to slip on the same shoes, but what isn't easy is keeping the coal dust off of my dress. Oh, well. I won't have need of the dress much longer, anyway.

I arrive in the town square with Papa holding my shoulder, and my hands clasped in front of me. I pretend that I'm wringing them in worry, when I'm really trying to hide my secret from Papa for a little longer. If he knows before the Peacekeepers, he and Mother might be in danger.

I spot Gale immediately. He's wearing the same thing he always does to the Reaping, and I smile. He returns it, the dimples prominent.

"Papa, I'm going to go talk to some friends," I say, and he releases his grip without a fight. He kisses my forehead and tweaks my ponytail before he allows me to get lost in the sea of people from 12. It's still easy to find Gale, however, because he towers over all of the other men around him.

"Nice dress," he says, and I smile up at him.

"Thanks."

"Good morning, citizens of 12!" I gulp. That's President Snow's voice, and it's coming from the sound system of the television. People are looking around, and finally, they look up to see the television. They all gasp.

"It appears that there are rebels among you, as you can see from this piece of _artwork_ that they have so delightfully used the medium of vandalism to create."

The crowd mutters, and they buzz so loudly that I can hardly hear President Snow's next line.

"What these rebels do not realize, however, is that that they are not getting their message across properly. They would have you hate us for what we must do to ensure peace and civility, but if you will regard their hastily-sketched artwork, you will see that they have simply done us a favor."

Gale and I exchange looks.

"_Hastily-sketched_?" He whispers, his voice quieter than a ladybug's wings, "_that took us hours_!"

"As you can see, the figures that they have portrayed here are famous for being weaklings. Here, we have Calligula Torm, twelve's male tribute from the first Hunger Games. He was decapitated by Ellesmira Baroque of two, I believe who was six years his junior! Then, we skip forward several years to Aurelia Smyke, who hid from the rest of the tributes until she was finally hunted down and murdered. What a hero!" Snow crows, and Gale clenches his teeth.

"Also, may I draw your attention to Maysilee Donner from the last Quarter Quell. She was one of the tragically-inept tributes who entered the arena with Haymitch Abernathy, your drunken Victor himself! Why, she was only protected by his small margin of skill, and when they parted, she lasted mere seconds against pink birds," Snow mocked. I could feel anger coursing through my veins, and I am thoroughly shocked when I feel rough fingers slide through mine. I squeeze Gale's hand back, though. I can feel dried paint on his hand, too, and I look at our handiwork and am proud of the stark white background that makes our coal drawings stand out. Gale is an artist, I realize. Maysilee Donner looks just like me.

"These rebels have not given you heroes, but have shown you how truly weak your district is unless it is a part of a whole. Panem needs you, and you need Panem. Do not let idle men and women with bones to pick affect your loyalty to your Capitol, who has ever been looking out for your best interests. Please note that even now, Peacekeepers are combing among you in search of those who have brought up so many horrible memories of weakness from your district. Peace will be restored," Snow says, and then his voice cuts off with a crackle.

It doesn't matter what he says, I know, because beneath the pictures that we drew last night, Gale has scrawled the words, "THE WINNERS' CIRCLE," in big block letters. The simplicity of the statement means millions of times more to 12 than any of Snow's words ever could or will.

The crowd is deathly silent, and I look at Gale. There's no fear in his eyes. I can only hope that the same is true for mine. I can hear the Peacekeepers getting closer, and our hands are dead giveaways. I hear a woman behind us whispering about paint and coal dust, and it's only a matter of time before we are hauled off to have all sorts of unspeakable things done to us.

"Peace will be restored," I whisper to him.

"One can only hope so," he replies, and then his other hand finds mine and we are looking into each other's eyes. I don't love him, and he loves Katniss, but for this moment he is what I need him to be. His hands are warm in mine, and his eyes make the pit of my stomach feel as if it's freefalling and burning all at the same time.

I let go of his hands, and he drops his to his side, thinking that the moment is over. I have other plans. My palms, paint-laden and coal-covered as they are, find the sides of his face. His stubble is as scratchy as I imagine, and I timidly smile up at him. I lean in and stand on my toes, pulling his face down to my level. I breathe in his scent. He smells like the wood of Katniss's house—clean, earthy, and unassuming—and I wonder if he'll taste the same. I'm going to find out.

Our lips touch, and the first thing that I am able to think of is that I know why Gale doesn't smile often; his lips are too chapped for it not to be painful. However, there is warmth behind them, and a feeling of companionship. _We're in this together_, they seem to say, and I try to silently respond with the same idea as our lips move together. He's ready to pull away; I don't have what I need yet, and I pull his face down to mine again. I'm only satisfied when I feel my fingers sinking into the perfect indentations of his dimples. We both pull back, smiling, before I feel the iron cuffs of the Peacekeepers' hands on my wrists.

Whatever the consequences, it was all worth it. I gaze up at Maysilee, my likeness, as I am dragged away from Gale to some terrible place. They'll take my treason out of my flesh until there's nothing left, until I don't look like a human being anymore, let alone my ill-fated aunt. Still, I hope that wherever she is, she's proud of me. _Also_, I think, wishing I could rub my lips, _I hope she approves of Gale_.

**A/N: Please feel free to tell me what you think—criticize until you're as content as Cinna in a fabric shop. Oh, and may the odds be ever in your favor!**


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